


eternity in an hour

by YouLowerTheIQofTheWholeStreet



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock (TV) RPF, Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Play, Anal Sex, Bodyguard, Choking, Dubious Consent, Explicit Sexual Content, Foreplay, Hair-pulling, Light BDSM, M/M, Masturbation, Mildly Dubious Consent, Mutual Masturbation, Oral Sex, Other, Photography, Rimming, Shameless Smut, Smut, Spanking, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-23
Updated: 2020-01-24
Packaged: 2021-02-27 13:15:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22377793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YouLowerTheIQofTheWholeStreet/pseuds/YouLowerTheIQofTheWholeStreet
Summary: To see a World in a Grain of Sandand a Heaven in a Wild Flower.Sebastian really didn't think a quick stunt as a sniper-cum-taxi driver would end with a young man in his bed, but then, the tiniest of mistakes can lead to the biggest of adventures.
Relationships: Richard Brook/Jim Moriarty, Richard Brook/Sebastian Moran, Richard Brook/Sebastian Moran/Jim Moriarty, Sebastian Moran & Jim Moriarty, Sebastian Moran/James Moriarty, Sebastian Moran/Jim Moriarty, Sherlock Holmes/Jim Moriarty
Kudos: 13





	1. A grain of sand.

_Tick, tick, tick, tick._

Sebastian hadn’t imagined his life this way. Not for a second. When he left home at sixteen, he’d imagined himself in the line of fire, gazing down a scope and proudly serving his country. Showing his father exactly what years of isolation, boredom and the odd belting had left him with: quick wit, a sharp eye and a clever tongue. He was discharged at twenty-two, six years after he’d first slipped his way into the Royal Marines, and four years after he’d prematurely forced his way into a sniper training course in Devon. He was put into action before he’d had the chance to take a step back and gloat.   
As he sat in his flat, discharge papers crumpled and hidden under a mountain of cans and a few empty glass spirit bottles, he imagined his fall from grace with all the clarity a sleepless night and four or five drinks would allow. 

Even then, he hadn’t imagined this. 

_Tick tick tick tick._

The clock in this car was incessant, and was only drowned out by a gloomy young lad sliding into the back seat and stifling a drunk burp as he slumped into the leather. “Anywhere in Soho, please” he mumbled, as Sebastian watched him in the rear viewfinder, suspicious eyes narrowing. The Irish lilt was subdued, but still absolutely present. Indicating to pull into the road, he offered the kid a smile and tried to pretend he’d worked as a taxi-driver for more than the last two weeks. When he decided to stop working dead-end jobs to pay the bills, and take up a few requests he’d had since getting back to London, he hadn’t imagined a job requiring him to stop outside of the same pub, every single night, waiting for one man. No image, nothing. Just five thousand pounds and a brief description. _Small, cocky & Irish. Flighty. Quick and discrete job_, was the request, and he certainly knew he’d be capable. What he hadn’t expected was the target to look so young. _So drunk._ Still in his teens, certainly. 

“How old are you?” 

“Old enough to box you one if you keep looking at me like that. Eyes to the front, Granddad.” 

Jim folded his arms and looked determinedly through the window at the passing traffic. He tried to keep his eyes open and steady but before long he’d drifted, his breathing deepening into a steady, regular pace. As soon as he fell asleep, Sebastian turned the car around, and headed towards the flat he’d been directed to use. He’d never had such an intimate job - this was very different, he’d decided, as he held a tissue soaked in choloform to the boys’ peaceful face - and he wasn’t sure he liked it. Until now, he’d never come in contact with a target and regardless, all of them had been fat, middle-aged, balding, powerful men. He never felt much remorse when he pulled the trigger.

He carried the boy with ease through the back entrance and up the stairs to the flat - which was meticulously kept, and seemed to have never been lived in. There were photos of a cheerful family, but Sebastian was certain that the domestic bliss had never stepped foot in the sterile building.

Locking the door behind him and laying the kid on the sofa, he spent a little too long second-guessing his next action. By the time he’d decided smothering would probably be the easiest method on his conscience, the kid has started to rouse. It startled Sebastian and he swore under his breath, standing against the wall as though he hoped it would swallow him up. Blinking absently, he watched him sit up, looking around, unsurprisingly confused by his surroundings. 

Jim knew he was in trouble the moment he started to wake. It all felt a little too comfortable. His surroundings smelled unfamiliar, like soap and lemon bleach and after a moment, he realised that there was an unusual smell and taste in the back of his throat. Certainly not the whiskey he’d drenched himself in the night before. When he moved to stand, the body in the corner of the room stopped him. He hadn’t even _noticed_ the man standing there, and the fright reminded him that he’d got into a taxi last night. Panicking, he took a few steps back, and was just a second or two too late when he legged it to the door, the older man grabbing him by the waist and dragging him back, stopping any noises leaving his mouth as he pressed a firm and calloused hand to his lips. “I need you quiet, kid” the stranger muttered, and Jim bit down hard on the hand that was restraining him, his voice raspy and quiet when he eventually grumbled “I’m not a fucking _kid_.” Sebastian manhandled the boy to the bedroom, and just as it started to dawn on Jim that he was in the most dire situation he could possibly imagine, he was shoved into the room, the door locked behind him. 

Jim kicked and screamed until his toes bled and his throat burned every time he swallowed. Eventually, though, he retreated to the bed, settling on the soft mattress and curling into a small ball. Like this, he looked far younger than his seventeen years, and far weaker than he perhaps once was. His slight frame allowed for agility and flexibility, often leaning in his favour during the odd bar fight or street harassment. Despite his determination not to sleep, he did, only waking to the sound of an old lock mechanism scraping open. The older man locked the door behind him, and slid a tray with a glass of water and a sandwich across the duvet. When he spoke, he sounded guilty - ashamed, perhaps, and it made Jim’s gaze focus on him with piqued interest. 

“You need to eat, and then you need to tell me why _anyone_ \- specifically, Richard Brook, would be willing to pay for your corpse.” 

Jim wrapped his arms around his legs, picking anxiously at the skin around his short nails. The name seemed to set him on edge, and he pushed his hair away from his face before he spoke. “Family issues”. 

Sebastain snorted. “You’d give my family a run for its money, if they’re looking for your head on a spike. Is that your surname, then? Brook?” 

Jim’s expression didn’t change, but he stared at the mattress, wincing and holding his finger to his lips when it started to bleed. “It’s none of your fucking business.” he grumbled, trying his best not to pout as his eyes started to water, damning his anger taking such an inconvenient form. He swore quietly when he realised the man had his jacket, rummaging through it before he found Jim’s wallet. It was almost empty, save for some change and a provisional drivers’ license. James Brook. “James” he repeated, more to himself than anything else. “James Brook, eh?”.

Jim looked at the man with disgust and eventually, mumbling through the thick fabric of the duvet, corrected him.

“It’s Jim. Jim Moriarty.” 


	2. familiar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jim and Sebastian start to get a little too familiar.

Over the next few days, Sebastian picked up on tiny morsels of information that slowly seeped from Jim’s lips, leaving him almost unwillingly. He was seventeen, estranged from his family, sofa-surfing and homeless and occasionally a ‘shot-girl’ for a gay bar in Central London. Most importantly, and Sebastian didn’t need to hear it from Jim to realise, he was _fucking clever_. He solved newspaper puzzles in less than a minute, answered questions Sebastian threw at him with a smirk and a nonchalant response. It took everything Sebastian had not to gawp at the teen and beg to understand how he did it. Instead, he rewarded him. He brought good food, puzzles that would challenge the boys’ mind and dragged a TV in from the sitting room to let Jim keep an eye on the news for any interesting discoveries. 

By day five, they had an oddly comfortable, dysfunctional routine. Sebastian would unlock the door and head into the room every morning before he left for work. Jim knew exactly what ‘work’ involved, and was allowed out of the room to help Sebastian clean and disassemble his guns every evening. The sniper would be back with armfuls of newspapers and books and food he’d seen on his travels, and Jim would work through it all during the night, sleeping during the day while Sebastian was away. 

On day seven, Jim realised he hadn’t made a single effort since the first day to leave. He could find little in him to care. When Sebastian entered the room, the boy was sat cross-legged on the left side of the bed. “You’re not going to kill me, so why are we still here?” he asked eventually, head tilted like a puppy waiting for a command. He watched with a curious expression as Sebastian sighed, ran his fingers through his troubled hair and perched at the end of the bed. “I’ve got to get you out, alive, without anyone noticing. This isn’t my neck of the woods.” With a bit of persuasion, Sebastian admitted what Jim already knew. This flat - the entire space - was _made_ for him. It was intended that he would die in here. Sebastian would leave, go home, go about his day. Whoever truly wanted him dead knew exactly where he was - the space was a ticking time bomb. 

Day nine was when they made a break for it. Sebastian begrudgingly carried the boy to the car just outside the complex door, and chucked his limp frame in the back as though the boy was worth nothing. He ignored the multiple cameras trained on the car park and headed into the drivers’ side, pulling away from the apartment and groaning a sigh of relief as he headed onto the motorway. “There’s not a fucking chance that worked” he called, rolling his eyes as he watched Jim crawl from the boot into the back seat, his small body sliding into the space with ease. “It was fun, though” Jim grinned, wiggling his eyebrows in Sebastian’s direction. “I used to love acting when I was little. I’ve missed my calling -” He threw a water bottle at Sebastian’s head when he heard a familiar murmur “ - You’re _still_ little”, but there was little true anger behind the act and as he sat, arms crossed and bottom lip jutting, he couldn’t help a small smile when he caught Moran’s eye. 

The smile only broadened that evening as he sat, gazing out of the window of a far smaller flat, arms perched on the top of the sofa. Sebastian had ran from the kitchen when he heard a loud _BANG_ from outside the building, and watched the teen, unsettled, as his car burned on the side of the road, little salvageable from the destruction. “Guess that’s someone reminding us that you’re alive. Fucking knobs” he muttered to himself as he trotted back over to the kitchen, looking every inch domestic with an apron tied around his waist and a dusting of flour on his tanned skin. That evening they ate together for the first time, Sebastian playing with his food more than eating it and Jim gulping it down in huge bites, barely giving it time to touch the sides. Halfway through the meal, Jim’s eyes had settled on a scar that peeped over Sebastian’s shirt, only just visible. “How’d you get them?” Jim asked eventually, eyes giving away the exact meaning behind his words. The hard gaze made Sebastian squirm, but with a little persuasion he started to speak about his time in the army. The couple of times he’d poached a tiger to keep funds and adrenaline up, and the one time the tiger got to him first. Unbuttoning his shirt a little, the scars became more visible, littering his body like faded tattoos. Jim was entranced. He’d moved around the table before he realised what he was doing, his fingers dragging over one of the largest scars that had taken a good chunk of flesh from Sebastian’s shoulder and bicep. Sebastian flinched at the intimate touch, and it pulled Jim back to reality. “I want to see ‘em properly, sometime. The least you can do for almost killing me.”

Sebastian conceded and that evening tugged off his shirt and sat on the sofa so Jim could inspect his torso. The older man closed his eyes and tried to ignore the light touches and gentle fingers dragging over his scar tissue. Eventually, his hand snapped out, grabbing Jim by the wrist. “Enough”. Jim froze for a second, before he leaned forward, his gaze travelling from Sebastian’s face down, further, further, further. “Or _what_?” he whispered, his lips an inch or two from his face. There was a moment or two of uncomfortable silence, before Jim headed towards the bedroom, slammed the door behind him, and threw himself rather dramatically onto the bed. “Idiot.” 

It took a couple of hours for Sebastian to stop feeling guilty that he had any sort of physical reaction to the touch of the teenage boy. He persuaded himself that it was the oddness of the situation, the reality of being in such an unfortunate place, that had allowed for his guard to be let down. He paced around the flat, tidying and moving things around until he eventually headed to the only bedroom. He let himself in, and sat at the very edge of the bed, the space between the two men seeming giant. Eventually, he slipped out of his shoes and rigidly laid down, nudging Jim with his elbow. “Sorry.”   
Jim huffed under his breath at the apology, but rolled over to look at the other man, eyes narrowing. “Who’s being the kid now?” 

That night, as Jim would recall the next morning, was the first time they slept together, purely in the literal sense. They so rarely slept at the same time, and never in the same space and when Sebastian woke, he tensed, realising that the small, firm body sprawled over his own, was Jim. He didn’t move for fear of waking the boy up, and his fingers dragged lightly over Jim’s shoulder. He hadn’t realised until now that the teen was wearing one of his shirts but it drowned him, swallowing him up until there was almost nothing left. “Need to get you some proper clothes, kitten.” he mumbled, choosing to ignore the feeling of Jim's lips tightening into a smile against his chest. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who's read this far. I'm just using this as a bit of an outlet outside of work, and I'm hoping it'll help my rusty writing skills improve a little. Feel free to inbox me with any critiques if you feel the need. Hope you enjoy! 
> 
> Thanks again.


End file.
